Accomplished
by theytalktome
Summary: John Layfield is well aware that he can be triumphant at getting anything he wants, whenever he wants it. Slash: JBL/CM Punk


Puzzled. CM Punk couldn't have put it any other way; pushing the glass doors open and stepping out onto the patio, his arms folded across his chest, and eyebrows raised as he thought up some snippy complainant comments to shoot of at his husband. Ultimately having chosen to remain silent and just walk up to him with a disapproving look. He poked the other man on the shoulder, his own eyes widened, half in surprise and half in humorousness, watching the small white ball go flying off the roof top into the darkness, to make him wait for the sound of glass shattering, a cat screeching below, or an injured person's scream. His eyes turned back just to catch the titanium rod plunk into the cold water. The older man spun around on his heel, his own surprised expression could have been deemed priceless.

"Look what you made me do!" he whined, his hands on his hips, the pouting apology that came from Punk was enough to make him fall in love again – because he really was just that good at it, "I thought I saw you come out here, but my mind is always playing tricks on me," he began, rubbing his eyes in contemplation, "With you gone at work, I just have to day dream sometimes," he chuckled softly, an arm wrapping around the boy's small waist, his eyes still focused elsewhere.

"Your grip hasn't let up on me like it has on your golf-bat," sometimes pronouncing things blatantly wrong made him even more adorable to the man, as proven by the burst of laughter and series of kisses.

"Darlin', my grip only let up because you startled me," he smiled back at the innocent pout he was receiving.

"At least you didn't fucking throw me under a god damn table, or tangle your hands up in my hair... again."

Contemplation ran rampant in John's mind. It always did. "I like when it happens at my meetings – I love when it happens at my meetings," his brown eyes locked to his lover's ass as he walked away, bending down to get the skimmer on the ground. Punk's hatred for pants was the best sight in the world. "Y'all know what? Havin' a pool on the roof almost –"

"Everything is on the roof," Punk quipped, snickering at John's stubborn moment of silence.

"It's almost like everyone is watching us," John's newest comment made him turn around and wink, just before pulling his shirt back down and covering himself just barely as he did going to the ring. He fetched several balls from the bottom of the pool, dumping them aside and accidentally proving you couldn't fish a golf club out of a pool with a small net, and let John take it and try to do it himself.

Not-so triumphantly, Phil's arms crossed back over his chest while John screwed around with the pole trying to get his beloved driver from drifting further into the deep end, "What is this green thing anyways?" he asked, somewhat prepared for the answer he knew "floating turf." John growled, announcing he was going to go on the other side to get a better view – angle.

"I saw it on TV one night, bein' advertised. Floating pool turf games – now why didn't I think of that? 'Guess it really doesn't fit in with energy drinks, 'Guess I shouldn't be screwing around with my favorite driver either," he shrugged, kneeling down on the patio and positioning the net correctly while Punk was mocking him behind his back; concluding that John really was to lazy to leave the house, or that he really wanted to save up the horrible vacation ideas by spending it golfing for the millionth – or billionth time in a row.

"Perfect..." John whispered to himself, personal victory and pride held high in his voice while Phil squealed like a girl and hiked his shirt back down.

"Stop that!"

"You didn't think I was going to do that? I always do that. I love seeing your ass – especially when you never expect me to do that all the time."

Phil growled, grabbing John by the collar and fighting him to the edge of the pool, accidentally falling in himself than tossing Layfield into it. He could hear the roar of the Texan's hearty laughter from the bottom, his bare feet pushing hard against the tiled floor, bursting above the chlorine and looking like a drenched cat, his hands snatching John's legs and pulling him in, wrestling him beneath the water, attempting to hold one another beneath it until the complaints started pouring in about his precious new "floating turf" could possibly get wrecked.

Punk groaned, shuffling through to the shallow end and squeezing out his raven hair, his eyes shot open as John muttered the price of the floating turf... which clearly could have been better spent on lingerie and whipped cream. Not that he would exactly wear it for very long, as John pointed out. He charged back into the water, diving onto John and faux-strangling him before heading back out in a huff.

"...Since we're both, y'know, in the water already..."

"Oh, shut up." He turned back around, tossing his shirt off and resting a hand on his hip.

"Oh, I am so good at this," he laughed.


End file.
